Tom Riddle had a secret - he had murdered his family. Arabella Chambers knew his secret - she had witnessed it.
After Tom Riddle kills Arabella Chambers, he steals her wand for safekeeping. But, unexpectedly, Arabella shows up at Hogwarts, very much...
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Tom was afraid of nothing.
But at this moment, his heart was pounding in a way it had never before. He slowly turned around, his wand tight in his hand.
The sound felt closer and closer. And then a tail. Black. Blue eyes in the darkness.
Tom wanted to curse the idiotic cat.
Frustrated, he turned back around. Tom flicked his wand, putting the room back the same way he had found it, picked up the ridiculous cat and stormed out of the cold room.
Every step up was agony. His limbs were heavy. His heart pounded. His mind burned. He didn't know what to think, what to do, what to feel — because everything he had believed for the past year was unraveling before him.
Arabella. That cursed name. The name that had plagued his thoughts ever since the night he killed his muggle family. Since he killed her. Since he had stolen her wand, because that was he did, because she was supposed to be gone.
And then she came back. Alive.
Impossible. Unnatural.
From that moment, she had clung to his mind like a stain he couldn't erase. For an entire year, she had been at his side, in his plans, in his thoughts. A force he could not control, no matter how hard he tried.
And now — this.
This lie. This game.
Their alliance — their promises — had been built on lies, delusions, falsehoods. Tom had indulged her, let her into his plans for immortality. He had considered her.
For what?
Because she was powerful. Because she could have destroyed him, and he needed her dead or loyal. Because— because he thought, for a brief moment, that she might be—
No.
Tom's grip on the cat tightened. Scarlett let out a low, warning growl. Even more frustrated now, he dropped her and let her run away.
Arabella had played him like a song. A delicate, beautiful composition that only she knew how to conduct.
She had watched him — watched him struggle, watched him obsess over power, over eternity, over life and death — while she already had it.
She was immortal. And she hadn't thought to tell him.
Tom's breath came sharp through his nose. His fingers curled against his palm. He wanted to scream. He was so angry he could barely think, but he had to. He had to sort through it, to make sense of the pieces she had left behind like breadcrumbs for him to never find.
Her skin. Cold, unnaturally so. Pale. He had noticed it a thousand times but thought nothing of it.
The way she moved. During quidditch, in the air. Too fast.
